


...lunchtime...

by scrub456



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Developing Relationship, Douglas Adams, Gen, If Greg doesn't look after them who will, Lunch, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson Being Idiots, Sleepy John Watson, The most important meal of the day?, Towel Day 2018
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-26
Updated: 2018-06-26
Packaged: 2019-05-28 15:31:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15052310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrub456/pseuds/scrub456
Summary: You don't promise a man lunch and then not keep your word.“Time is an illusion. Lunchtime doubly so.”― Douglas Adams, The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy





	...lunchtime...

**Author's Note:**

  * For [notjustmom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notjustmom/gifts), [AlwaysJohn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlwaysJohn/gifts).



“Is he… Sherlock is John okay?” Greg tapped the side of John’s shoe with the toe of his own. He'd walked in on these two doing any number of ungodly things (fortunately, or not depending on who was asking, none of them the sort of ungodly things that won office pools, though this was close). This was by far the most disturbing.

The entire contents of the sitting room of 221b had been shoved against the wall with the fireplace and covered in plastic. All of it. The walls, ceiling and floor had also been draped in the clear plastic sheeting. Greg had had to enter the flat through the kitchen door and then fight his way through a flap of double layered plastic to get to the sitting room. A single floor lamp with three bright bulbs provided the only light in the room.

The plastic was splattered top to bottom with something that looked remarkably like real human blood, and Greg reminded himself to get a sample before he left. A variety of hand-held gardening implements, household tools (all manual, none electric), and standard looking kitchen knives lined the floor. Next to them sat a disturbingly large container of the red goo… No. Blood. Definitely blood.

Sherlock looked the very picture of a deranged madman straight from a television crime procedural. He was still dressed in his damned bespoke trousers and too tight white button up. Over that he wore a pair of ill fitting galoshes, bright yellow kitchen gloves, a full pink floral apron (complete with ruffles -- Mrs. Hudson was not likely to get that back intact), goggles, and a plastic shower cap to complete the look. He was mid-swing with a meat cleaver when Greg entered (yet another conversation he did not look forward to having with his dry cleaner).

John had not fared so well. He was dressed in old workout clothes and trainers, and positioned in the same awkward, definitely compromising, position the victim of their current case had been found in. That meant his shorts were down around his trainers, though Sherlock had been kind enough to allow him to leave his boxer briefs in place, and his arms were crossed above his head with his t-shirt twisted in such a way that it was clearly meant as a form of mild bondage. He lay completely still, striped in red from Sherlock’s repeated hacking motions with the blood dipped tools.

“ _Christ._ ” Greg gagged as Sherlock finished swinging the cleaver. John’s foot listed limply to the side as a result of Greg’s nudge. In turn it tugged the shorts, which shifted his other knee, and that in turn smeared a few drops of blood.

“Stop!” Sherlock bellowed as he stepped gracefully around pooling streaks of crimson. “Do you mind?” He shoved Greg away from John and adjusted his foot and knee precisely. “Please do not disturb the crime scene, Graham.”

“All right, sorry.” Greg put up both hands in a placating gesture. “I just have to ask… Because I have to. I just… This isn't _really_ a crime scene, is it? Because, bloody hell, it looks like one.”

“Don't be ridiculous,” Sherlock huffed. “Mrs. Hudson would never let me hear the end of it if I murdered my flatmate in the sitting room. It's just not dignified.”

“Sure,” Greg nodded. “Makes sense.” He then crouched down next to John and leaned in to see if he was actually breathing. “With this next question I cannot emphasize the importance of your candor enough.”

Sherlock motioned for him to continue as he swirled a pair of kitchen shears in the blood. It was starting to congeal and clot, and Greg found that beyond alarming.

“ _Is_ he okay?” Greg pressed two fingers to John’s neck and felt a strong, steady, resting pulse. He breathed a sigh of relief before Sherlock even answered.

“Don't be an idiot, Gavin. I would never intentionally cause John harm. He agreed to this demonstration. It took a bit of convincing, but he finally saw the flawlessness of my reasoning.” With a shrug, Sherlock swung the shears. “He's doing remarkably well maintaining the pose.”

“How long have you been at it?” Greg checked his watch.

“Most of the morning. I’m nearly done.” He huffed in annoyance. “Part of the bargain was that we'd try that new Greek place down the block for lunch.”

Greg hummed. “I see.” He stood and faced Sherlock. “I'm going to make my own deduction then, based on the information I have in front of me.”

“Deduction? What are you-”

“Ah,” Greg held up his hand to silence him. “John was just getting home from an overnight shift at the hospital when I called with this case.”

“Yes. I fail to see-”

“Shush. You dragged him along to the scene, without so much as a kip or a cuppa.”

“It was the first case in a week! Of cour-”

Greg crossed his arms over his chest and glared. Sherlock had the decency to stop talking. “This one’s been brutal. Run ragged, all of us. All through the night. Until I _made_ you two leave at seven this morning.” Sherlock nodded, his brow furrowed as if he were truly considering Greg’s train of thought.

“Somewhere between the Yard and Baker Street you devised this little exercise in deviance.”

“I beg your pardon!” Sherlock huffed, clearly affronted.

“My apologies... This _experiment._ ” He cocked an eyebrow at Sherlock, who nodded in agreement. “Then you had John put on comfortable clothes and lay down.”

“He's dressed just like the victim.” Sherlock seemed desperate to have his point understood. “Except the boxer briefs, obviously.”

“Never would've taken him for red.” Greg winked. Sherlock simply hummed, then shook his head and glared.

“Do you intend to ever reach a conclusion?”

“My conclusion is that you promised John lunch, but you lost track of time.” Greg chuckled.

“What? No. It's-”

“Half six.” Greg held up his watch for Sherlock to see. “John must've crashed some time ago, a combination of exhaustion and lack of food. Poor bastard must've learned to sleep under any circumstances in the army. I've heard horror stories.”

“ _What_? No, John's just a very abnormally compliant test subject.” Sherlock frowned at his prone flatmate. His very still, eerily quiet, prone flatmate who was covered in blood. He couldn't help his nose twitching, but he managed not to let Greg see the fact that the sight of John motionless and covered in blood was the single most nauseating thing he'd ever seen. His chest constricted, and he refused to admit to himself it was probably panic he was feeling.

“John, my simulations are complete. You can get up now.” Sherlock nudged him with his boot. John didn't stir.

“Told you.” Greg grinned.

“He's having a laugh at the both of us right now. That's all.” Sherlock nudged him again and spoke a little louder. As if on cue, John snuffled a tiny snore. Just one. His breathing remained even and he didn't move.

“We should probably…”

“His shoulder. Damn.” Sherlock looked contrite as he knelt beside John, freed his hands, and gently worked the muscles around John's shoulder.

With a groan and painful jerk, John startled awake. “Ow. Fuck. Sherlock? Wha-”

“You fell asleep while pretending to be our victim.” Sherlock helped him carefully sit up. “I think it wise to end our experiment here, get you cleaned up, and in bed. You're of no use to me falling asleep on the case.” He offered a small smile.

John hummed and nodded blearily. He started to wipe his eyes with his hands, but realized they were covered in blood. “Wait.” He rasped, then cleared his throat. “You promised me lunch.”

“It's probably best if we-”

“You promised. And I'm famished. What time is it, anyway?” John let Greg and Sherlock help him stand. He looked at the shorts around his ankles in a sleepy haze, shrugged, and stepped out of them.

“John it's almost seven. Lunchtime has come and gone, mate.” Greg steadied him as he swayed on his feet.

“Don't care. Lunch Sherlock. You have to keep your word.” He smiled and immediately started to droop.

“And I will, John. Tomorrow.” Sherlock started to guide John through the plastic to the loo. “How about some nice tea and toast? After your shower?”

“Mmmm, no. You promised a Greek lunch.” He clumsily patted Sherlock’s chest. “We made a deal.” He started to rub his eyes again, but Sherlock pulled his hands away.

“John, please. Be reasonable.”

“No.” He stopped and seemed to come a bit more awake. “No. We always do it your way." He shrugged. "I want lunch. You can call an order while I shower. It's gonna take me a while. Might have a good soak for my shoulder too. And when I'm done, you'll have picked up my Greek lunch. I won't go to bed until you do.” He squared his shoulders, winced in pain, and listed a bit to the side. The overall effect was less commanding and more adorable than he'd intended, but it got his point across.

Sherlock growled. “Fine!” He tossed his goggles and shower cap aside and pulled the gloves off with a snap. “But you're staying here to make sure he doesn't drown himself.” He pointed his finger at Lestrade.

“My pleasure.” Greg laughed as he watched John stumble to the loo and Sherlock tear plastic away from the kitchen doorway so he could get to his mobile somewhere in the mess of the sitting room.

Forty minutes later, Sherlock -- still wearing the apron and galoshes -- returned to find a freshly showered John fast asleep on the couch Greg had only managed to push halfway across the room. Greg was reading through John's notes from the case.

“You couldn't have got him to bed? Any bed?” Sherlock sighed as he sat their ‘lunch’ on the floor next to the door.

“Tucking in your flatmate is definitely not my division.” Greg stood and stretched. He dug through the bag of food, pulled out a carton and turned to go. “See you lads tomorrow. Not too early, yeah?”

Sherlock waved him on, standing otherwise still next to the couch, observing his friend. He found one of Mrs. Hudson’s quilts and and draped it over him.

“Sh’lock?”

“Sleep now, John. We'll have lunch in the morning.”

**Author's Note:**

> This lunch at any time concept may lead to more stories. We'll see. ;-)


End file.
